


Once You Get A Taste For It

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Brock Rumlow being awful, Cannibalism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gore, HYDRA Trash Compactor Challenge, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, This fic contains real cannibalism because I am not a Coward, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 21:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17271422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Do you want a Winter Soldier eating people fic? Here is a Winter Soldier eating people fic.





	Once You Get A Taste For It

I.

 

The first guy, Rumlow thinks, is actually lucky: he doesn’t know it’s going to happen.

It’s been so long, snow piling up against the doors and tiny windows of the facility they were supposed to have been retrieved from days ago, the sky outside varying between black and dark gray and black again. The facility is still stocked with fuel, enough to keep the building at not-freezing temperatures, and the team had brought supplies, of course. Just not enough for this long, and definitely not enough to sustain a metabolism like the soldier’s.

By the second day, already consuming the majority of everyone’s rations, the soldier is angrier than usual. By the third day he is angrier than that. By the fourth day, when the rations are long gone, everyone else on the team is making excuses not to be in the same room as him, even though it’s the warmest room in the facility, the one with no windows.

It’s when they’re alone together that Rumlow really gets concerned. The anger melts and the soldier curls up close to him, whining softly like a suffering dog. He presses his face against Rumlow’s neck, which isn’t unusual, but then takes a deep breath in and sniffs at it, which is. He holds himself there, jaw close to Rumlow’s throat and stubble scratching his skin, for far longer than Rumlow is comfortable with. Rumlow holds very still, and then makes a comforting noise and eases him off, and he’s already made his decision.

Moreton is the newest member of the team, and more importantly he has no close family members—that’s a bonus; Rumlow is not a monster. Rumlow calls him aside, all friendly and casual: they need to discuss things.

Down a cold hallway, to another bare colder room. Rumlow keeps it nice, friendly. The other man is scared, his face pale, but it’s a general, vague sort of terror: he’s probably happy to have a greater distance between him and the soldier right now.

Rumlow puts an arm around the man’s shoulder for a second, squeezes his upper arm through all the layers of clothing. Everyone deserves comfort at a time like this. He tilts his head toward one of the high, snow-blocked windows, makes a joke about a helicopter trying to get in right now, asks Moreton what the weather was like where he grew up.

Moreton laughs nervously and says something about warmth, and Rumlow draws his sidearm and shoots him in the brainstem. The metal of the weapon feels cold in his hands.

His teammate drops to the ground, and Rumlow calls the soldier in.

There’s a lot of screaming when the others see the soldier dragging the body back to his preferred room, more than Rumlow would have expected, given how lethargic everyone is from the cold and hunger. But nobody actually says anything negative. The four surviving other team members just make themselves scarce, leave Rumlow alone with the soldier.

As for the soldier: back in his warmer spot, he goes to work quickly. Rumlow had been concerned about cooking and making a fire, but the soldier simply produces a knife, cuts off the dead man’s clothes, and—goes to work.

He watches, and his mind goes a little fuzzy, from the hunger or the tiredness or the ringing still in his ears. The soldier only uses a knife at first. He switches to hands and teeth. Too quickly, and there’s blood on his face and hands, clumped in his hair. Shiny and wet and jewel-red on the metal of his hand.

Rumlow moves closer once he’s sated enough to be calmed, and he strokes the soldier’s hair, and then he steals a cut of meat. It tastes a bit like deer.

There’s nothing left for anyone else, unfortunately. The soldier even eats the marrow from the poor bastard’s bones.

Rumlow is the leader, so he talks to the others, after, alone. “It was necessary. If we let the asset starve to death, we will _all_ be dead when we get back.”

No one argues. Two of them manage to nod, and Davis looks like he is going to cry.

It’s a lie, of course, no matter how much forced grimness Rumlow puts into it. He is not worried at all about the soldier starving to death. No, Rumlow is worried about the soldier getting so hungry that Rumlow can no longer control who he kills.

Moreton was lucky. The others keep their distance from him and the soldier even more wholeheartedly. In the middle of the night, in the quiet that somehow prevails over the sound of the wind outside, Rumlow hears weeping from another room. Around dawn, it someone—Davis, by the sound of it—is actually praying out loud.

Rumlow leans closer against the soldier, who is lying on his right side with his back to him, on and under packs and blankets and whatever they can find, asleep. Rumlow has been next to him all night, just for warmth up until now, but honestly (although he has nothing against his men) the power of all of this is turning him on a little bit.

He nudges the back of the soldier’s leg with his booted foot, and the soldier twitches and stirs obediently, his leather harness creaking, and turns to face Rumlow when Rumlow nudges him again. Rumlow grabs his right wrist, pulls it toward down his crotch. The soldier doesn’t mind, just pushes closer and nuzzles into him happily, still sated from last night’s feast. He smells like old blood, a strange, medical smell with an odd sweetness to it. His hair ends up against Rumlow’s mouth when he leans in closer, warm against him even through their clothing, and starts undoing layers of Rumlow’s clothing.

The cold air should be unpleasant on his skin when the soldier pulls him out, but the soldier’s hand is warm. Rumlow breathes in slow and steady as his fingers wrap around him. Nobody in the other rooms will be able to hear, not with the sound outside, not with all the crying and mental anguish that is going on. Rumlow wouldn’t have been able to do this yesterday, wouldn’t have been _interested_ even, not before he ate like he ate last night. In reality, he knows that eating that meat probably just eased his tiredness from the hunger and returned him to normal, but his mind still wanders to old myths he’d heard about absorbing another man’s vitality by eating his flesh, about spirits and power passing on to the victor who consumes. The thought just makes him harder.

He comes into the soldier’s hand when Davis sobs extra loud in the next room.

“Clean that up off your hand,” he says, pushing the soldier back away from him a bit. “More protein for you.”

The sun is up enough now that even with only the light coming in from the corridor Rumlow can see the soldier nod happily.

He settles back down with the soldier once he’s cleaned up, together in that little nest of blankets and dried blood, and it would actually be quite pleasant if Davis’ crying wasn’t still going an hour later. Rumlow might have to do something about that soon. Someone like that isn’t worthy of Hydra.

He waits throughout the day for the soldier to start getting antsy again, and then is almost disappointed when the snow clears, and help shows up before nightfall.

Davis spends most of the very long trip back weeping with relief.

 

 

II.

 

 

Screaming coming from the medical room isn’t unusual, but currently it is the wrong person screaming. Rumlow abandons the soda can he’d been about to retrieve out of the vending machine and rushes back. He kicks the door open, rifle already raised, and then stops when he sees the soldier crouching down in front of the chair he is supposed to be strapped down to, a man sprawled on his side on the white tiled floor in front of him. The man’s white coat is not white anymore. Neither are the tiles.

Another tech is in the corner of the room by the sinks, cowering against a cabinet door and screaming. The man on the floor in front of the soldier apparently is well beyond screaming now.

If he hadn’t been with this organization for a very long time, he might not have remained calm. “Stand down, солдат,” he says, and keeps his rifle steady.

The soldier looks up, mouth bloody. He must have been holding onto the dead tech, because now he lets go, and the man slumps down onto his back. The impact causes several loops of intestines to slide out of the dinnerplate-sized hole in the man’s abdomen. The soldier’s human arm is bloody up to the elbow.

“I was hungry,” the soldier says.

“You killed a tech,” Rumlow says simply.

“He was dead anyway.”

Rumlow moves his eyes over to the other tech for clarification, but the man is still curled up and screaming. Idiot hadn’t even followed the right security protocol when the soldier harmed someone. He’s not going to be useful now, either.

In the meantime, the soldier has pulled off a long chunk of something that looks like muscle from within the dead man’s abdominal cavity and is holding it up in front of his face, dangling it there like a child about to eat a gummy worm.

“Tell me what happened,” Rumlow says.

The soldier ignores him, takes a bite of the sliver of muscle.

“ _Respond_ , солдат. You’re in trouble, do you understand?”

“He hurt my arm,” the soldier says with his mouth full. “I punched him and then he was dead already and I was hungry.”

Rumlow lowers his weapon slightly, tilts his head to see past the soldier to the examination chair. By the looks of it, the techs hadn’t set the soldier’s restraints properly: honestly, both these idiots seem like they had it coming. That means neither Rumlow or the soldier will likely get into trouble, even though Rumlow _should_ technically have still been the room.

But that doesn’t change everything else wrong about the situation. Christ, the _mess,_ for one. And the soldier might get sick…

He shrugs, and lowers the gun. If Pierce doesn’t kill him, Rumlow will try to talk to him about readjusting the soldier’s diet. He clearly _was_ very hungry.

“Go wait outside,” he says to the other tech. “I’m going to put out an actual security call, like you should have done, but first I’m going to calm him down. Don’t let anyone come inside, you hear? Absolutely no one.”

The other tech yells for a while, and collapses back against the cabinet door once or twice, but eventually he pulls himself together enough to half-crawl out of the room. Rumlow locks the door behind him.

He turns back around, and steps closer toward the soldier and the hot pool of blood.

 

 

III.

 

 

Rumlow likes that the stories have spread, that he gets more respect once other people around him have heard the rumors about the soldiers. He likes feeding the soldier his normal food in front of the others, knowing that their faces are getting a little paler at the thought that the rumors might be true, might one day be horribly relevant to their lives.

It won’t ever happen, of course. The snowstorm had been a freak event, a failure of nature and planning, and Rumlow would never waste a crew member like that again unless he _had_ to.

But the others don’t know that. Rumors have a way of surviving and mutating, after all.

There had been a firefight, many enemy deaths, a gutshot on their own team. Nobody had been eaten, or even chewed on. Nobody had even been licked inappropriately. But Rumlow had seen the expression on the soldier’s face as their medic worked on the wounded man, a faint confused familiarity mixed with desire.

Rumlow notices him licking blood off his fingers, sometimes, after a kill that has gotten bloody.

The soldier doesn’t remember the snowstorm, of course. Or the tech. At least, he doesn’t _know_ he remembers. But he’d still looked at the screaming bleeding man in a way that he shouldn’t have. Rumlow had noticed, and of course the others had noticed as well.

He sticks close to the soldier, after that, and the others scurry to follow orders even quicker than usual.

In the back of the van, on the way back, with the injured man treated and sedated and safe, and with everyone else but the driver asleep or pretending to be. The soldier is in the seat next to him, leaned close and pressed against him, smelling of blood and leather and fresh sweat. Rumlow doesn’t bother pretending it’s for warmth.

He unclips the knife from his belt, blade dull inside the dim vehicle. He does it quickly, as soon as the idea enters his head, so he doesn’t think. It’s all one motion: undo the knife, press the silver blade against the skin just above his right elbow, below the hem of his black t-shirt, open a tiny sliver of red. Rumlow keeps his knife sharp: it barely hurts.

“Here you go,” he says to the soldier, quiet over the vehicle’s engine.

The soldier doesn’t need to be told anything else: he ducks his head, looking grateful.

His mouth is warm, and Rumlow feels wetness and gentle suction, very different over flat skin than around his cock. The soldier presses his tongue flat against the cut so that the pressure squeezes out more blood, then laps with his tongue again, gentle, before switching back to suction. One of Rumlow’s hands is still holding the knife: he uses the other one to guide the soldier’s human hand to where it needs to be.

The soldier breaks off after a moment, the wet patch of skin on Rumlow’s arm cool in the exposed air now, and presses his cheek against Rumlow’s upper arm, close and loving. He’s gotten his pants open already—he’s so good at doing that quietly by now. Rumlow feels skin against hot skin, and then his mouth is pressed back against the cut on his arm.

Rumlow feels teeth there this time, but they’re gentle.

He exhales. Strokes the side of the soldier’s head with his free hand, his jaw, and the soldier just leans down over Rumlow’s arm like he’s tending the wound with his mouth.

“You can bite,” Rumlow says softly. He is rocking his hips up now, into the soldier’s hand. “Just a little.” He tugs on the soldier’s hair, a warning maybe, or just emphasis.

He feels it almost immediately: at first just a slight pinch of teeth, and then harder, bruising, and Rumlow moans out loud.

It hurts, the pain clamping and tearing rather than sharp, it fucking _hurts_ but in his head he hears Davis crying and sees blood in the soldier’s hair and the lips bracketing the new wound are soft and warm and the soldier doesn’t let go and his teeth are in his skin and _maybe_ ...

Rumlow comes, silent in the dark vehicle, biting back cries. The soldier’s mouth unlatches from his arm, and he ducks his head down, sucking up the new wetness from his fingers, diligently licking up droplets that had splattered onto the canvas of Rumlow’s pants.

Rumlow lets him. He feels cold all over from the sweat, from the wet patch on his arm. Weak, like he’s been consumed.

The soldier straightens in his seat, wiping his mouth with the back of his human hand. He had obeyed, as always. He’d bitten him, as told, but just a little.

And once again, Rumlow is almost disappointed.

 

 

 

 


End file.
